


Outside Heaven

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So," says Grantaire. "What are you into?"</p><p>"I'm not really into organised sports," says Enjolras, his eyes already starting to go hazy and his breaths speeding up, "but I do debate?"</p><p>"Sexually," clarifies Grantaire, rubbing his thumb over the head of Enjolras's cock. "Since I doubt we'll be doing much organised sport or debating in here."</p><p>(A Queer as Folk AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> All of the better dialogue shamelessly ripped from Queer as Folk US (because this may be the only US adaptation of a UK show that's genuinely better than the original) 01x01. Babylon has been replaced by Heaven, which is the massive gay superclub in central London.
> 
> If you've not watched Queer as Folk then... consider this a very long age-difference PWP.
> 
> Enjolras is of age in the UK, but if teenagers squick you then you may want to back out, or just skip the very last paragraph or three.
> 
> For [angeolras](http://angeolras.tumblr.com/), who requested 'some e/R with a huge age gap, at least 10 years'. Sorry, sorry, this is prolly not what you were expecting...

It’s a boy in a battered red jacket and Grantaire is going to _ruin_ him tonight.

Rewind.

Grantaire's in a club and he's dancing by himself. For now. That's how it always starts. The floor is sticky damp with spilled drinks and the air is sticky hot with the odours of a couple of hundred people packed in too close and Grantaire himself is sticky with sweat. He'd left Joly and Bossuet at the drinks bar about an hour ago, not begrudging them the way they had curled close together and writhed. That sort of thing is not for him. Grantaire doesn't _do_ attachment.

Grantaire does sex. Grantaire does really great, mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex.

He closes his eyes and lets his head tip backwards to the beat of S Club 7 and raises his hands like he just doesn't fucking care. There's someone gyrating near his hip and he pretends he hasn't noticed it for a second until it turns into grinding on him and then he opens his eyes and looks at them and grins. Grantaire only really has three rules. They’re a bloke, they haven’t fucked before, and they don’t stay the night. In the massive gay club that is Heaven, that only really counts as one rule.

Grantaire puts his hand on their arse and squeezes, pulling them in closer until he can feel the heat of their stomach against his.

"R, we need to go," Joly yells into his ear.

He scowls. "We only just got here!"

"I have a ten hour shift in fucking A&E tomorrow morning, I need to go!"

"You go! _I_ have a nice little—" Grantaire turns around, but his potential shag for the night is gone, shimmied off to find someone who will take more notice of them. "Argh, fuck you, Joly. I was going to get laid tonight!"

"You get laid literally every other night. Sometimes even more. C'mon R, you have work tomorrow too."

Grantaire sighs, and follows his friend out. He throws on his leather jacket, knowing it'll be freezing the moment he hits outdoors even if he won't feel it, and trails behind Joly and Bossuet. "Next time, just leave without me," he grumbles.

"No," says Joly, who always has been far too sensible. It was just one time – _one time_ – when they'd left Grantaire alone at a club and he'd got drugs off someone he hadn't known and they hadn't mixed well with the alcohol, and now they won't let him play without a chaperone. It's not like he's done that since. All his drugs are from Jehan now.

"All right, fine, we're out now. I'm not going to head back in, not with that queue. I'll see you tomorrow." Grantaire waves a hand, and Bossuet rolls his eyes. Well, they could at least _pretend_ that they're not going to wait with him right up until he manages to catch a taxi and make sure that he tells the taxi driver the correct address for his flat. They're awful best friends. He bets Eponine would just leave him there to die on the pavement if he wanted to.

Joly shivers and stamps his feet as they wait for a taxi, and Bossuet tugs him in close. "You should have had more drinks," says Grantaire, who can't feel the cold at all.

"I can't run a department on sleep deprivation _and_ a hangover," says Joly gloomily. "I'm only allowed to pick one these days." Urgh. They’re getting old. Grantaire shakes his head in disgust and lights up a cigarette. He doesn't even complain when Joly steals a desperate drag of it, hoping maybe to either drop dead right there and then and avoid old age, or to ward off the cold. It's not that Grantaire doesn't feel the toll these days, the ache of his body as he drags himself up in the mornings, the fog that can't be chased away without a strong cup of coffee, but every night when he gets home from work the only thing on his mind is going out again, having another drink, dancing away his weariness, feeling _fucking immortal._

What Grantaire sees next is not a taxi. It’s a boy in a red battered jacket and Grantaire is going to _ruin_ him tonight.

He's lurking uncertainly at the top of Villiers St, maybe a university student from somewhere in the countryside who’s never been into a gay club before, slim and waifish with high cheekbones and an arse that Grantaire wants to sink himself into. He's watching Grantaire out of the corner of his eyes, intrigued but feigning nonchalance. Grantaire flips up the collar of his leather jacket, pushes off the lamppost and saunters over. "Hey."

"Hey," says the boy.

"You going home with anyone tonight?" Grantaire believes in being frank.

"Don't know. Waiting to see if anyone interests me."

Grantaire likes that. The boy is trying at least. He leans in, inhales a mouthful of smoke and exhales it as a kiss across the boy's neck and watches as he shudders. Wavy blond hair drapes over one shoulder, pulled together with a plain band; Grantaire hooks one finger in, pulling it off carelessly. The hair spills loosely around them, caught in the wind; the boy tosses his head and grins at him. Grantaire grins back. "And... does anyone interest you?"

The boy wets his lips, an invitation, and Grantaire chases the motion with a teasing swipe of his tongue across the boy's lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it.

"R! Taxi!" Bossuet yells from somewhere behind him.

"Well?" Grantaire smiles crookedly, stubs his cigarette as he walks to the taxi and doesn't look back.

"R, that is an actual child," says Joly as the boy climbs into the taxi behind Grantaire.

"I'm really not," says the boy, in the manner of someone who has fended off accusations of looking young his entire life.

"Joly, Bossuet, this is—"

"Enjolras."

"—Enjolras, and I'm going to fuck him senseless tonight. Multiple times. Enjolras, this is Joly and Bossuet and they worry far too much about me." Grantaire leans across Enjolras to yank the taxi door shut. He gives the driver his address, and then turns his attention to the delicious young thing before him.

The drive back to Grantaire's is a blur of soft, cool skin under his fingertips and wet lips under his tongue and quiet, open-mouthed panting until Grantaire is hard in his trousers and Enjolras is _definitely_ hard in his too-tight skinny jeans, rocking helplessly against his thigh. They stumble up the stairs to Grantaire's flat and pull apart only for Grantaire to unlock the door. "Close it after you," he calls, pulling his jacket off and flinging it onto the back of the sofa as he walks to the kitchen. His heating is in full blast and it feels oppressively hot after the brisk night air. His t-shirt comes off after that, carelessly draped over a chair, and his wife-beater last, piled onto the counter-top. He grabs the jug of water from the fridge and drains half of it in one (he's drunk, not stupid, he knows how to prevent hangovers).

"Can I offer you anything?" drawls Grantaire, finally turning around to look at Enjolras, standing just inside the door and looking lost. "Water? Coffee? A blow job?"

"Nnnrgh," says Enjolras, staring at the chilled sweat that rolls down Grantaire's chest. Grantaire knows what to do with that. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and shoves downwards, taking his underwear with it, grabs the remaining water and pours it over his head. He shakes his head like a cat and lets the cool water drip down his chest. The clean up is going to be a bitch but he is drunk and he doesn’t care. He bet he looks hot.

"Well? Are you coming? Or going? Or coming and then going?" Grantaire steps forward as Enjolras just stares. "Or coming... and staying... and coming again?" He smiles the smile of a predator that knows it's already caught its prey, and Enjolras steps forward, first haltingly and then more sure, hand outstretched like he's not sure he's allowed to touch until his fingertips brush against Grantaire's chest.

Enjolras takes his time to explore Grantaire's body as Grantaire peels him out of his clothes and slides his hands up and down planes of smooth, smooth skin. There are all sorts of advantages to an open plan apartment, and being able to grab Enjolras by the arse, hitch him up until he wraps his long pale legs around Grantaire's waist and walk over to his bed in barely five steps is one of them. Grantaire throws him down onto the covers and he laughs breathlessly as he bounces, pulling Grantaire down by the shoulders for a kiss.

Their teeth clack together and Enjolras shivers as Grantaire runs a light knuckle from his knee up his warm inner thigh. He pushes Enjolras flat onto his back with a little shove and Enjolras lets him, luxuriating against Grantaire's sheets like a cat, hair spreading out. (Grantaire's thread count is obscenely high. It makes sense, given how much of his free time he spends on this bed.) Grantaire almost wants to take a photograph of him, have him feature in an ad. He could sell anything with this body.

Instead, he kneels and palms Enjolras's cock, feeling it twitch in his hand. It's warm and responsive in his hand, and Enjolras moans appreciatively, draping his legs over Grantaire's hips. "So," says Grantaire. "What are you into?" He strokes up and down slowly, gently leaning down on Enjolras's hip to stop him from bucking up and adding a little twist of his wrist right at the end.

"I'm not really into organised sports," says Enjolras, his eyes already starting to go hazy and his breaths speeding up, "but I do debate?"

"Sexually," clarifies Grantaire, rubbing his thumb over the head of Enjolras's cock. "Since I doubt we'll be doing much organised sport _or_ debating in here."

"Oh." Enjolras blushes, and squirms. "Um."

"Oh my god, already?" The words are barely out of his mouth before Enjolras arches his back and gasps. Grantaire grins and squeezes; Enjolras grunts, biting down on his lip, probably a habit from sharing a room or a house. He comes over Grantaire's hand, a quick, wet load that Grantaire strokes him through gently as Enjolras bats helplessly at his arm. "So. Handjob, check. What else? Blowjobs? Sixty-nining? Hands-free? Rimming?"

"All of it," says Enjolras, a little too quickly. He's trying to run before he can even crawl, but Grantaire likes that. His chest heaves and his eyes are blown wide and he looks scrumptious.

"Oh?" Grantaire bets this kid's never even had stubble burn before, never been with anyone old enough to have proper facial hair. He hooks a hand under one of Enjolras's knees and lifts his leg enough to graze his stubble against his thigh and Enjolras hisses. "So you know what rimming is then?"

"Sure," says Enjolras, the little liar, but he smiles like he knows he's been caught out and he doesn't care. Grantaire grabs his legs and flips him expertly onto his front, cutting his afterglow short; Enjolras lands with a 'oof!' and curls his fingers into Grantaire's duvet, looking over his shoulder half coyly and half apprehensively.

Grantaire meets that expression with a kiss and then trails his mouth down Enjolras's neck, brushing his mane of hair out of the way. He licks over the ridges in his spine, all the way down until he parts the soft mounds of Enjolras's arse and teases his wet tongue over the darker skin of Enjolras's arse. Enjolras whimpers. "And now you know what rimming is," says Grantaire huskily, this time pressing his tongue flat and curling it.

Enjolras likes it. Grantaire knows, because Grantaire works him open like this, with his face buried in Enjolras's arse and his tongue feeling every little contraction Enjolras's body involuntarily makes. Grantaire also knows because Enjolras is really very vocal about it, keening and gasping and making muffled groans into Grantaire's duvet.

He is dangerous for Grantaire. All this power is rushing to Grantaire's head, or possibly his cock, and he wants to spend all night with Enjolras spread beneath him, work in the morning be damned. He pulls back, and gently bites Enjolras's arse like he's been wanting to ever since he saw him. When Grantaire rolls Enjolras over, his eyes are glazed. Grantaire busies himself grabbing a condom, and gives him the time to come back to himself.

"Wanna put it on me?" Grantaire hands him the condom and watches, amused, as Enjolras rolls it on with all of the technique of someone who has had practice on dildos, and none on actual real penises. "This your first time?"

Enjolras just quirks an eyebrow at him.

"We passed the point where I could tell a while back," says Grantaire dryly. "Like when you came over my hand in about two minutes flat."

"Yeah, it's my first time," says Enjolras, the side of his mouth lifting ruefully. "Are you going to say something about deflowering me?"

Grantaire laughs. "You are absolutely no delicate flower." He's _intoxicating._

Enjolras's legs end up draped over his shoulder, Grantaire running light fingers up and down the soft hairs on his thigh to watch Enjolras tremble. He positions his cock and pauses, gives Enjolras time for an out if he wants it. He should, he know, open Enjolras up with his fingers, do a more thorough job than he can manage with just his tongue. But he's not going to. Grantaire is going to make this the most memorable sex experience of his life. He's going to make himself the fuck Enjolras will forever look back on and shiver in pleasure. He pushes himself in.

Enjolras cries out. Grantaire doesn't stop until he's all the way in. Grantaire's not _small_ , by any means, and Enjolras's arse clenches desperately around him, spasming, hot and tight and _so good_ around Grantaire's cock. He gasps, and fists Grantaire's duvet until his knuckles are white. "It's all right," says Grantaire. "Give it a moment. Relax."

"Does it always hurt?" asks Enjolras, and it comes out a little shaky, a little terrified, a lot aroused.

"A little," says Grantaire. "The burn feels good, afterwards. You'll feel me for days. Every time you walk, you'll remember _this_." He slides out, and pushes back in.

Enjolras gasps once more. But he doesn't say stop. He doesn't say slow down. He says, "Again."

Grantaire grins. He knew Enjolras would get it. He starts slow, because he's not trying to _hurt_ Enjolras, and sure enough, Enjolras starts to relax, starts to thrust his hips up to meet Grantaire's, starts to writhe on the bed as Grantaire slides his hands up Enjolras's waist, blunt nails digging into his skin.

Every time that Enjolras starts to get comfortable, Grantaire switches it up. He goes faster, he goes harder, he starts only pulling out halfway before slamming back in, he bends Enjolras in half as he leans down for a kiss. Enjolras pants and bucks underneath him and Grantaire holds off on palming him because he remembers being young, coming at the slightest hint of friction on his cock and pulls Enjolras’s wrist away every time he reaches for himself. Instead, Grantaire rolls his hips and aims for the prostate, groaning as Enjolras convulses around him, driving him closer to the edge until he can feel the telltale build up of pressure.

“I’m gonna make you come,” growls Grantaire.

“ _Finally_ ,” says Enjolras feverishly as Grantaire grips his cock and twists in time to his thrusts. Grantaire comes first, spilling hot and hard into Enjolras’s arse and Enjolras drags in a ragged breath like he’s trying to burn it into his mind and follows him soon after with an exhausted cry.

“Fucking hell.” Grantaire slumps forward over Enjolras, sweat cooling down his back, and he drops the used condom into the bin by his bed for that express purpose.

“Not bad,” Enjolras manages, and Grantaire wheezes a laugh. He’s too fucking tired to move.

~

The night passes in a haze of severe lack of sleep and several more goes at sex, round two starting when Enjolras starts squirming, clearly unused to sharing a bed with another person, and somehow Grantaire ends up with another condom on and his cock maybe accidentally slips inside Enjolras. Or something like that.

Round three occurs after Grantaire jolts awake and realises that he passed out after round two with his cock still inside Enjolras. He starts shifting around in a subtle attempt to wake Enjolras up so that he can kick him out and then gets a bit distracted because Enjolras asks if he’s too tired to show him how to give a blowjob and if there is anything that makes Grantaire bristle, it’s insinuations about his massive capacity for sex. (Round four is Enjolras’s sloppy, glorious first attempt at reciprocating the blowjob and Grantaire’s come all over his face.)

~

Grantaire wakes muzzily to the sound of his alarm getting insistently louder and Enjolras honest to God cuddling him. Grantaire doesn’t do cuddling. But there he is, with one arm around Enjolras’s chest and his nose pressed into the curve of Enjolras’s shoulder and neck and his legs all tangled up together as Enjolras makes little satisfied mumbling noises and makes Grantaire increasingly late for work. Oh – shit.

Grantaire sits up in horror, looking at the sleepy golden angel in front of him, because Grantaire _never_ lets people stay the night, and his only excuse for it is how fuckable Enjolras looks when he spreads his legs and fucking _old age_ making him crash out immediately after sex oh crap, crap, crappity crap.

“Up!” splutters Grantaire, scrubbing at his face, because he doesn’t have time to deal with personal crises right now. “I’m going to be late to work!”

“Mmmnrgh,” says Enjolras, rolling out of Grantaire’s bed and looking even younger than he did the day before. Holy fuck, drunk Grantaire makes awful life decisions, even if his dick is really happy with him right now. “Can I take a shower?”

Grantaire glances at the clock. “Make it quick,” he says tersely, heading into the kitchen to make coffee. He hates dealing with people in the morning, and he feels even more vulnerable to have a stranger there seeing his daily habits. He drinks the coffee far too quickly, and then hovers outside the shower. He desperately needs one – there’s Enjolras’s come rubbed all over his stomach and thighs and he cannot go to work like this.

 _Screw it,_ he thinks, and pulls open the shower door. Enjolras turns around from where he’s washing his hair and smiles at Grantaire like he’s enjoying this bloody domesticity and Grantaire scowls because the alternative is to smile, and – he doesn’t even have an excuse for not smiling, and that just makes him scowl even more.

“Not a morning person, I see,” says Enjolras, going on tiptoe to give Grantaire a wet kiss and Grantaire grumbles at him. Mornings are for bright young things that can stay up all night and still be horrifically chipper. Yuck. “On the other hand,” says Enjolras, “I see someone _else_ is happy to see me.” He smirks. Grantaire growls; betrayed by his own body.

“Smartarse,” says Grantaire, placing his hands on Enjolras’s hips and twirling him around before shoving him onto the wall. If he’s going to have to suffer a stranger in his house at his most defenceless, he is damn well going to take advantage of it.

~

“Where do you work?”

“Shoreditch,” says Grantaire shortly, because he is _not_ about to disclose his place of work to a stranger. He's wrestling with the cuffs on his shirt as Enjolras pulls back on the same outfit as last night and now Grantaire remembers who he'd picked him up because the long hair and the battered red jacket and the sliver of skin when he reaches up make a mesmerising picture.

“That’s on my way. Can you drive me to – university?" asks Enjolras.

Grantaire blinks at him in horror because he is not so tired that he missed that pause. "How old are you?" He congratulates himself that his voice is steady.

"Twenty."

"Bullshit."

"Nineteen," concedes Enjolras, but a nineteen would probably still be a university student. He narrows his eyes. "Eighteen," admits Enjolras but Grantaire can tell when he's lying now. “Seventeen?”

"What is this, a fucking countdown?"

"...Sixteen," says Enjolras, a blush on his face despite the defiant look he shoots Grantaire.

"Aw, _shit_ ," says Grantaire, heart-felt.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.defractum.tumblr.com) :D


End file.
